Life As We Know It
by something-memphis
Summary: Things change; childhood friends grow apart, and some friends are best left behind. Through unforseen circumstances at a party, Kenny runs into - or rather walks in on - a long forgotten pair of foreigners and builds the most unexpected of friendships. Kenny's perspective. Gregory/Christophe. Graphic sex, crass language, violence, and drug use galore. [Hiatus]


**[EDIT: FEB 22, 2013] On hiatus until I can get my shit together. I'm so sorry. It'll be worth it, though, I think.**

* * *

Another party was being held at Token's mansion. The students from the local college crowded the house, making use of the limited number of weekends before they had to go back to classes and everyday life. Stan was no different; he was insistent on dragging Kenny along with him, despite the blond's protests. He had work in the morning. The _last_ thing the blond should be doing was getting drunk with a number of college kids binge drinking and grinding against each other to terrible radio pop music.

Though, by now, Kenny was used to it. Stan would return to the lousy mountain town they called home between semesters for a few weeks, and every weekend he would drag his friend to a party to get wasted with a slew of people he didn't even like. Kenny, ever the had no intention of letting free alcohol go to waste and would drink to his heart's content - which, more often than not, involved one too many beers, a cold bathroom floor, and blurry memories the next morning. It was more enjoyable for the crowd than it was for him. Kenny had practically become infamous at these social gatherings. A part of him hoped Stan would grow tired, or even embarrassed, of his antics and stop inviting him.

Needless to say, it never happened. Stan continued to persuade his friend into tagging along, and Kenny always followed suit. This particular party was no exception; especially with only two more weeks until Stan had to drive back to Fort Collins for the Spring semester.

Stan and Wendy were whispering to each other with playful smiles, already well on their way to becoming plastered before midnight. Sitting on the adjacent couch, and with no intention of watching someone - friend or otherwise - publicly dry hump his girlfriend, Kenny averted his gaze to the television screen. The Nicki Minaj video on the screen reflected the music streaming through the several speakers throughout the house, though Kenny was hardly paying attention to it; his mind was elsewhere.

He was thinking about his sister back at the house, no doubt waiting up for him to come home safely and in one piece. As always when Karen was home alone with their father, he could only hope he was occupying himself with the television and allowing the youngest McCormick to read in peace in the room her and the brothers shared. Stewart had been doing well these past few weeks of not putting his hands on either women in the house; even so, Kenny didn't trust his father for a moment - especially not when there was still a meth lab in the backyard.

As far as Kenny was concerned, there were only two positives to following along to parties such as these: free alcohol, and a plethora of new "clients" just waiting to pass along a few bucks in exchange for a pill. In fact, just as Wendy rose from the couch - and, by extension, Stan's lap - a certain dark-haired, dull-eyed kid in a chullo nodded in friendly acknowledgement at Kenny from across the room and gestured to the kitchen. Ignoring Stan's inquiries, he followed Craig to the table providing red Solo cups of beer for the party-goers.

"Cheers," Kenny said, raising a cup in a salute before downing it in large gulps; Craig silently did the same after pulling a small wad of bills out of his pocket; no other gesture was needed. "This is a tad more than your usual, dude," Kenny said sardonically as he counted the bills and reached for his pocket. Craig simply shrugged and accepted the small plastic bag the blonde offered after pocketing the money. "Don't take _too_ many, man. We wouldn't want you to wind up in the hospital or get thrown in jail," Kenny quipped.

"No. That's your thing." Kenny couldn't help but to snicker at his response; Craig, apathetic as ever, barely cracked a smile.

Nothing else was said between them; the blond grabbed another beer and strolled to the living room. When he noticed Stan was no longer there, he sauntered back into the kitchen to join a crowd surrounding the island to watch a curly-haired blonde square off against Clyde. If _anyone _could out-drink the meathead _of course _it would be his own damn girlfriend. It was a sight the McCormick boy had seen many times these past few years, and he didn't care to see Bebe win again; he had better things to do.

Though, the more he wandered throughout the house, occasionally nodding in recognition to the familiar faces of past classmates and never without a beer in his hand, the more blurry and unconcerned his attention became. He didn't have to look in a mirror to know the alcohol colored his cheeks red - he felt it. Just as he felt the thin film of perspiration form on the skin beneath his parka.

He needed air.

Luckily, the back porch was quiet and more or less deserted, save for a small group of kids dipping their bare feet into the pool across the yard. Kenny unzipped his jacket and draped it over the porch railing, savoring the bitter cold wind as it cut through his ripped jeans and thin t-shirt. The harsh wind against his bare arms and face sobered him all but immediately as he watched the two girls of the group strip themselves of their clothes to jump into the pool in only their underwear - one of them wasn't even wearing a bra. Kenny vaguely wondered how drunk you had to be to skinny dip in an outside pool in the middle of January.

These girls obviously weren't drunk enough since as soon as they jumped in they climbed right back out. Their male companions howled hysterically as the girls shivered and redressed. "Assholes!" one of the girls shouted, tugging her friend, still half-naked, back into the house. The two guys continued to laugh as they followed, passing by Kenny without so much as a glance in his direction and leaving him alone on the porch. He looked idly back at the door, contemplating going inside, but decided against it. Instead, he pulled his jacket back on and sat in one of the wicker chairs on the porch, propping his feet on the table in the center.

For what felt like ages Kenny didn't move. His head rested lethargically against the back of the chair and he stared at the porch's ceiling, ignoring the vibration of the phone in his pocket - he already had an idea of who it was. He was content sitting in silence, allowing the cool air to gradually sober him.

When he finally grew sick of it, he reached into his pocket to see six unread text messages from - just as expected - Stan, all containing the same message: _dude where the fuck are you?_ Kenny didn't bother replying; Stan would look for him if it was really that important.

* * *

"Where the fuck have you been?" Kenny opened his eyes to see Stan looming over him with the most furious expression. "You missed the greatest fight just now; Tweak got the shit beat out of him." The blond didn't doubt the exaggeration; that kid never could stand up for himself.

The blond yawned. Had he been sleeping? "I just needed some air."

"I tried calling you."

"I know," Kenny replied, wondering where his friend's exasperation was coming from.

"So you ignore it?"

Kenny laughed, incredulous. "Pretty much, dude. What's up your ass tonight?" Bitches_ don't give me this much shit_, he groaned. As he stood from the chair a thought crossed his mind, and he just couldn't help himself. "I've more important things to take care of than watching that poor kid bleed. I've seen it all too many times."

Stan scoffed. "I guess if you call taking a nap 'important,' then, yes, I suppose you _do_." Regardless of how irritated Stan was with his companion, he trailed behind the blond back into the crowed house.

It wasn't until Kenny reached the stairs that he realized he was being followed. With one hand on the banister, he turned and growled, "I hope you're not intending to watch me piss." His tone came off slightly more acerbic than Kenny had meant, but it made Stan walk off nonetheless. In truth, Kenny was just looking to get away from the crowd and music. Since he was torn away from the porch, he needed a new place to hide.

Token's mansion was enormous - far too large for a family of three. The second floor was a long hallway of numerous doors, most of them closed. As an unwritten rule of college parties, Kenny knew to never open a closed door. He was satisfied that the farther down the hall he got the more the music seemed to fade away - and with it, the party. "Why does someone need a house this big?" he thought aloud. When he reached the end of the hallway, he noticed the hall continued on. He turned the corner to find that the final door was a stairwell. A _third _floor. Curiosity as well as disbelief got the better of him, and he began to climb.

The closer he got to the top of the stairs, the clearer _certain_ sounds became - and the more apprehensive Kenny became about what was at the top. However, with the ethanol still circulating throughout his system, he couldn't put two and two together and pushed open the slightly cracked door at the top landing.

Kenny McCormick was notorious for walking in on couples in the throes of passion. Typically he would laugh it off and go back to his business like nothing had happened - once or twice he even got a threesome out of his little mistake. He was comfortable enough with sex that he could simply shrug it off like he never saw anything, and as time passed his "victims" in turn learned to do the same.

_This_ particular circumstance was odd to say the least.

The third floor was a game room - a massive man cave, if you will - complete with a large leather sectional set before a television the size of Kenny's bedroom wall, if not larger, and every gaming platform on the market. A poker table, air hockey table, and a game of foosball were strategically placed throughout the room. To the left was not only a balcony overlooking the backyard, but a billiard table as well.

Kenny regarded _none_ of this, however. His attention was focused, not on the billiard table itself, but on the two men naked and glistening with sweat on said table. The slender, more gracile blond with his back on the table clawed at his partner's already scarred back as he cried out incomplete sentences in a mix of French and English. The brunet's pleasured moans and heavy breath was muffled as his lips were attached to his lover's neck. Neither seemed to notice the intrusion.

In short, Kenny had never felt so awkward in his life. His first instinct was to silently close the door and walk back downstairs unnoticed. At the same time, there was a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach and he just couldn't find the will to move. So, instead, he laughed - hysterically. He held his sides and felt tears well in the corner of his eyes and continued to laugh until his cheeks hurt.

A pair of green eyes tore themselves away from the wonderful, salacious expression of his partner beneath him and fell on the giggling mess of a young man in a gaudy orange parka. Out of some strange sense of decency, the robust brunet stopped his movements to give the intruder a daring look mixed with fury that Kenny was laughing much too hard to see. The blond underneath him did not seem to realize they were no longer alone and impatiently moaned, "Why the _bloody hell_ did you stop?"

"_Nous ne sommes pas les seuls_." We are not alone.

When Kenny finally composed himself he wiped the tears from his eyes and said, "Of all the bedrooms this damn house has and you choose to fuck in _here_ - on a _billiard table_ no less. I'll be honest, _that_ is something I have yet to do, but now I want to." At this point, he was just rambling.

"Do you _mind_, Kenneth?" the blond snapped in a classic British accent, attempting to prop himself up on his elbows to give Kenny the harshest glare he could manage; it didn't work as well as he had hoped for he was still trying to catch his breath, and his tone only came off as desperate.

"I'm not the one _fucking_ in public," he laughed, then added as an after thought, "and don't call me Kenneth." When he turned to leave, he felt the obligation to offer some friendly advice. "Y'know, if you _are_ going to fuck in public, you should really learn to lock a goddamn door."

The brunet practically growled "Duly noted; now _get the fuck out_." He didn't have to be told twice. Trying not to start giggling again, he turned and sprinted down the stairs, closing the door behind him.

As he walked down the stairs, a smile still gracing his face, and back into the party, he noticed Annie standing in the foyer with a few of her friends - all familiar faces. "Well, well," Kenny chimed, running a hand through his hair and flashing the curly-headed blonde a charming smile, "if it isn't my beautiful southern Belle." They both knew she wasn't from the South; that didn't stop her from smiling in response to his flattery. "How've you been, baby?" He felt as if he was on top of the world.

Annie gave him a mocking glower. "Better now that you're here."

"Mm-hmm, sure. How's Francis?"

She rolled her eyes, ignoring Lola and Rebecca's snickering behind her. "We broke up," she said, moving closer to Kenny.

"Aww, what happened?" he asked, feigning concern. "Not any good in bed?"

Annie withheld the urge to roll her eyes again and scoffed instead. "He definitely wasn't as good as _you_," she sighed, tugging at the hem of Kenny's jacket, "but then, who is?"

"Y'now, Annie, you can_ always _call me when you're feeling lonely. I'm sure I can make up for his lack of _charm_," Kenny whispered in her ear. As a final touch, Kenny tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, caressing her cheek as he dropped his hand. When he walked away, he didn't have to look over his shoulder to know Annie was practically melting, despite her attempts at playing hard to get. It was all too easy with these girls; he needed new game.

Actually, he would have loved to stay and flirt with Annabelle a little longer - he had better pick-up lines up his sleeve than what he just displayed. His buzz was dwindling, however, and he was in need of another beer.

* * *

The next few hours passed in a haze of music, bodies, and alcohol. Sometime during the night Kenny remembered arguing with Token about the price of a bar. He _insisted_ Kenny cut his price by a few dollars - it was _his_ party after all. It was Kenny who got his way in the end, and happily pocketed yet another roll of cash before downing a beer. By now he had lost count of how many he'd had. It _was_ enough, however, that his thoughts drifted back to the two girls that had jumped half-naked into the pool in below thirty-degree weather. He was envious, and wanted - or more, felt drunk enough - to follow suit. On his way to the back door, he was stopped by Stan with Wendy hanging off his arm.

"How about a game of beer pong before we leave, dude?" Stan asked.

Kenny didn't even have to think about it. "I'll pass, man. I'm gonna go swimming real quick." He could _hear_ himself slurring.

He didn't hear Stan's questions; he was already running toward the porch. The moment his foot hit the frosted grass he began pulling off his clothes. He was in only his boxers and socks by the time he reached the edge of the pool. Stan and Wendy were running after him, trying to stop him, but his mind was elsewhere. Before he had time to second guess himself and his rather ridiculous decision, he leaped.

The water was fucking freezing. Beyond freezing. What felt like thousand knives made of ice stabbed at his bare skin as he sunk to the bottom of the pool. For a moment, he stayed at the bottom, allowing himself to float just over the pool floor, ignoring the pain in his lungs and enjoying the sense of clarity the water provided. When he broke through the surface with an exaggerated splash and gasping for breath, he noticed Stan and Wendy weren't the only ones leaning over the edge of the pool to watch him. It took him a moment to recognize the third face.

"Are you okay?" the blond asked in his English accent laced with concern.

"How much of a fucking idiot can you be, Ken?" Stan, unlike his girlfriend and the Brit, didn't seem concerned, but pissed. "Get the fuck out of there before you - " Kenny didn't allow him to finish his statement; he grabbed the raven's arm and pulled him into the water too, clothes and all. When Stan came back to the surface, he was _livid_. "What the _fuck _is your _goddamn problem_!?" he screamed as he pulled himself out of the water, hacking.

Kenny simply shrugged and laughed. "You need to loosen up a little bit, bitch," he said, remaining in the pool, acting as if he did nothing wrong. For a moment it looked as if Stan was going to jump right back in and drown the poor blond. This only made Kenny laugh again, and he continued to laugh as Stan stomped away, back into the house, brushing rudely past the brunet from earlier, a towel in his hand. Wendy seemed a little more reluctant to leave, casting a longing glance at the Brit before trudging through the snow to the house.

Once Stan was out of sight, the Englishman offered a hand and pulled Kenny out of the water. His partner passed Kenny the towel and collected his clothes. "You're fucking crazy," he said with a smile in a faint accent that was harder to place than his companion's. Kenny simply laughed and wrapped himself in the offered towel, drying himself off as he followed the two back to the porch where a fire was lit in the fire pit he hadn't noticed before.

"You probably don't remember us," the blond said, sitting with his lover on one of the couches by the the fire, curling up to him underneath their blanket.

"Should I?" Kenny inquired, sitting in a chair opposite them and wrapping himself in his own blanket after redressing.

"You should," the brunet chimed in casually. "You saved my life, after all."

Kenny was quite taken aback by this statement. "I-I'm sorry?" he stuttered, unsure if he heard correctly.

"Christophe, dear, you're are honestly the _worst_ at breaking news such as this," the blond chided, pulling something out of his jacket pocket. "Don't you think you should explain a little better?"

"Well I would, Gregory, _dear_, if you would _allow_ me," the brunet called Christophe replied almost with a sarcastic smirk. "It was years ago; when we were kids."

Christophe continued to relay the events of the Canadian-American war; a war of morals, really. A mother given the wrong impression; a child who had made a mistake for the sake of lunch money; a mission gone awry; and the rather lucky diversion of Armageddon. Most of this was easy enough for Kenny to remember once the subject resurfaced. There were a few details here and there that Kenny seemed entirely oblivious to.

"You quite literally pulled me out of Hell," Christophe finished. The characteristic flick of a lighter brought Kenny's attention back to the present; the Frenchman was lighting what seemed to be a hand-rolled cigarette. "And for that, I owe you my life; as well as my respect." Smoke escaped his lips with every word. A familiar scent surfaced, but Kenny, hardly paying attention, didn't notice.

Gregory was silent as the brunet passed the cigarette to him. After a long intake of the smoke, he held it out for Kenny to take and said, "And I owe you just the same." Kenny accepted the cigarette silently, with a questioning look. "Why are you looking at us like that? Surely you of all people can recognize a damned joint when he sees one," Gregory laughed, though not in any malicious or offensive manner.

"What exactly does _that _mean?" he asked, holding the smoke in his lungs and brushing the later statement off as if he knew all along it wasn't tobacco. He was already starting to feel a head change, starting the see the vibrations.

Christophe chuckled, taking the joint from Kenny. "You sell pills to college students. It's not exactly a secret. Any sensible person can tell you have _three _separate bags of drugs in your pocket." He couldn't help but to laugh as well. It's true; it was pretty obvious what he was doing, and he didn't even try to hide it anymore. The local police have an idea of what he's doing, but typically let him be. There were more dangerous criminals on the streets than the McCormick kids trying to pay for their dinner. "Speaking of which: how much are you asking for?"

"Depends on what you're looking for."

"Speed."

"Three bucks a pill," Kenny replied, leaning back in his chair, smug.

"That's a damn good deal."

They shared a laugh at the music reference; Christophe was the last person on the planet Kenny would have suspected of listening to _Gucci_. It was certainly one the most unexpected exchanges Kenny had ever made.

They continued to chat, mostly about mundane things - drug experiences, foreign cultures, politics, and conspiracies. It was while Gregory rolled a third, only occasionally glancing at his fingers as his eyes were focused on Christophe's during the brunet's rather animated story about a visit to Copenhagen, that the question of their non-American roots were brought up. Christophe explained he was born in southern France, but moved to Colorado with his mother after his parents' divorce. Fourteen years passed and he never left.

Gregory was a completely different story. After the war ended, his prestigious parents learned of his whereabouts. Once they heard he was living in a war zone and attending - _God forbid - _a_ public _school, he was shipped right back to London. It was only a few years ago, under particularly harsh circumstances involving his father, that Gregory decided to return to the podunk little mountain town. He refused to go into any more detail.

"Would you ever think of going back?" Kenny asked, his curiosity peaked.

It took a moment for Gregory to answer. "Perhaps to visit London again; my father, however, is simply out of the question."

As Gregory spoke more of his family, his expression became dejected; clearly it was a sensitive subject. Christophe seemed to pick up on this and wrapped his arms around the blond, all but pulling Gregory into his lap. When he did, Gregory looked up at the Frenchman and smiled with enthusiasm before resting his head on Christophe's shoulder.

Wanting to let them have their moment, Kenny casually stretched and stood. "Well, I hate to cut the conversation short, but I'm freezing and want another beer." As he walked toward the door to go back inside, he looked back at the couple and said, "Thanks for the _business_, guys. And the weed, of course." With a shrug he added, "We should do it again sometime."

Christophe smiled back and replied, "Looking forward to it." When he was gone, Christophe looked down and ran his hands through Gregory's blond hair. "_Êtes-vous d'accord?_" Are you okay?

"I guess so," Gregory replied, pressing himself closer into the brunet's chest. "He's right though: it _is_ a bit cold out here. The fire's going out."

"Would you like to go inside?"

"Not yet," Gregory smiled. "I don't want to move."

* * *

Kenny instantly recognized a difference when he walked inside. The party was still going strong - he didn't even know what time it was - and as much as he still wanted to go home, he just couldn't stop _smiling._ He couldn't recall a time he had ever been this stoned in his life. Even the music was getting to him; he _hated _this song, but he just didn't give a shit, he wanted to dance.

During a trip to the kitchen, he ran into Craig again. He was pulling on his jacket and looked furious. When Kenny mentioned this, Craig scoffed and gestured toward Clyde. "The asshole's picking fights with _everyone_ tonight. I'm taking Tweak home before something _else_ happens." He watched Kenny throw his cup into an already full garbage can as if it was a basketball. "You smell like weed."

"Yup," he nodded, clicking his tongue when the plastic cup ricocheted off the edge and onto the floor. "If it was mine I'd share a bowl or two. But, alas," he sighed, turning away.

On his way to the living room, and therefore to the crowd of bodies dancing lethargically against each other, he was stopped by Bebe viciously grabbing his shoulder and pulling him into the kitchen. "Take some shots with me." Kenny barely had time to think before the blonde was passing him a shot glass of what _could_ have been vodka and _might_ have been tequila, accompanied with a fruit juice. Who was he to deny such generosity? They toasted and slammed their drinks back. Definitely vodka. Two more immediately followed and soon Kenny was being pulled toward one of the - rather convenient - guest bathrooms by the foyer. He was only vaguely aware that Clyde could have been watching.

Bebe was on him within a matter of seconds, and he happily allowed her to drunkenly paw at his body. It wasn't until she had unzipped his jeans and forced his pants down to his knees that he blinked and realized what was going on. "Before I do this," she slurred, looking up at him, her hands gripping his hips, "you have to promise not to tell Clyde."

"Anything you want, baby," he replied, tugging playfully at a lock of her curly gold hair.

"It's Bebe."

She didn't give Kenny another chance to retort as she took Kenny's full length into her mouth. For once, Kenny was happy the music was so loud - no one would be able to hear the surprised gasp of complete joy when she did. The longer (and more) she took, the more aggressive Kenny became pulling at her hair and thrusting into her mouth. He didn't notice the tears that started to well in her eyes; but she didn't complain, so he really couldn't care.

When he came, after an immeasurable amount of time, he could have become hard all over again at the sight of her swallowing without so much as a mean look. "Well that was rather fast," she said as if she was disappointed.

He wanted to say, _I'm drunk, bitch, what the hell do you want from me? _However, not wanting to start an argument after a decent encounter, he sighed pathetically, "Sure." Before Bebe could pull his shirt off to go any farther, he pushed her away and zipped up his pants.

"I wasn't finished," she whined.

"Maybe not, but _I_ am."

"_Excuse me_?" Kenny couldn't tell if her tone was shocked, angry, or both.

He rolled his eyes and sighed as if it was obvious - and, really, it kind of was. "You offered to suck my dick. _Why_ would I say no? I won't _fuck_ you because I'd rather _not _get jumped by your boyfriend and all his fucking football friends. _This _was enough of a chance for me. No offense, sweetie, but this is where we part for the night." Without another word, he opened the bathroom door and walked back into the crowd, not entirely sure if what just happened actually happened. He hadn't exactly been clear-headed tonight.

This uncertainty was proven, however, when Clyde appeared from nowhere and delivered an inebriated left hook to Kenny's cheek. Kenny stumbled backward and just about gave himself a concussion landing on Token's marble floors. Bebe could be heard crying out in shock. "Stay the fuck away from her, _prick_."

"Way ahead of you, _asshole_," Kenny quipped with a cocky smirk.

Clyde scowled and gave the blond one final kick to the shin before turning and stumbling away. "Holy shit! Are you okay?" a girl asked, running to his aide. "That kid just won't stop picking fights."

He flashed her the most charming smile he could and said, "Of course, honey. Would you mind getting me a couple beers?" The girl didn't seem to appreciate being called 'honey' by a stranger, but ran off to do as she was asked without further inquiry.

Not long afterward, the pain in his cheek dissolved into a faint throb, and eventually to nothing. By then, he had completely forgotten what had happened, that he hadn't seen Stan since the pool incident, and couldn't recall just how many beers and shots of vodka he had consumed that night.

* * *

All too many parties ended up with Kenny on a cold bathroom floor. He was too intoxicated to even know where he was, let alone know where the fuck his shirt and jacket went. His head hung pathetically over the bowl of the toilet, his head pounded, his throat burned from the stomach acid, and the room just wouldn't stop _spinning_. He braced himself to retch again as his mouth began to salivate.

While he sat on the floor, exhausted and practically using the toilet seat as a pillow, all he could think about was how much he wished he was at home, in his own bed - or at least on his own bathroom floor. Perhaps then Karen, or even Kevin, would be helping him.

As he imagined picking himself up, wiping his mouth, and walking home, he was hardly aware of the bathroom door opening. "Kenny!" a British accent cried. "Hey! Do you need help?" When Kenny didn't answer, Gregory swore to himself and requested that Christophe bring him a glass of water.

Once the door closed again, Kenny tried to lift his head. He only succeeded in becoming dizzy again and had to lean back over the toilet bowl to dry heave a few times until he was staring at his half-digested dinner. When a voice full of concern helped him sit up, he realized a glass of something ice-cold was being pressed into his hand, and someone was rubbing his back soothingly. He could only hope he wasn't being offered another beer. "That's not alcohol, is it?"

"Oh, _hell_ no," a second voice said. "It's _water_; it'll help." He placed full trust in this voice, and took several swallows. "Not _too_ fast or you're just going to make it worse," they said, taking the glass from him.

At some point, his shirt was put back on and he was being asked if he could stand. "Would you like us to take you home?"

Without even thinking, Kenny said, "Please." Somehow, not even seeing their faces, he felt like these two truly wanted to help him - which was more than he could say about Stan. Stan would have left him to his own devices _hours_ ago.

The next thing he knew his jacket was being wrapped around his shoulders and he was being carefully pulled off the cold tile. The movement, unfortunately, only made the room start spinning again and he had to lean back over the toilet seat to dry heave several more times. When he felt like he could move again, he nodded, allowing his arm to be thrown over two strong pairs of shoulders. This time, he kept his eyes closed.

With his eyes closed, he could only guess where he was being taken. He heard the music, then nothing but wind as cold air whipped across his face - he hadn't even noticed his jacket had been put back on. Once outside, he felt like he could at least open his eyes, and pulled his arm away from Gregory's shoulder so he could unlock the back door of their car.

He must have slept the whole way home, because the next morning, all he could recall was vomiting on the sidewalk then being guided through his house and into his bed. A glass of melted ice water sat on his bedside table next to a sheet of paper with a number and two names written on it.

It surprised him that the only pain he felt was in his cheek. He didn't have a hangover, and _something_ told him to thank an ever-so gracious Gregory Sinclaire and Christophe DeLorne for being better friends in a single night than Stan had been these past few _years_.

* * *

**Author's Note: **First,_ "Liquor before beer, you're in the clear; beer before liquor, never been sicker."_ True advice. Second, C'mon! Kenny is a slut and a drug dealer; don't act like it's not true! Thank you so so much for reading _and_ for your patience. I know I am absolutely unreliable. It won't happen again, I swear. ;-; And _please please please_ review! You have absolutely no idea what they mean to me!


End file.
